


The Pitch

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Circus Performer Clint Barton, Clint Barton starts at SHIELD, Flerkens know what they like, Gen, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, no hints of AoU compliance here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29983041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: The cat sits back and studies Clint as she might a large, tempting snack. There’s a collar around her neck, with a tag. Goose, it says. Odd name for a cat, but then thisisa rather odd cat.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Goose, Clint Barton & Nick Fury
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75





	The Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> I think Clint Barton and Goose were made for one another, so all I needed was an excuse to get them together. Since MCU!Clint started at SHIELD only four years after Nick Fury’s encounter with Captain Marvel, it is reasonable that Goose would still have been around (even if we never saw her post-2008). Plus, I love the _[xxx] starts at SHIELD_ trope above anything, so here we are.
> 
> Thanks are due to the lovely **smallnico** for helping me get this little piece out of development hell.

“Can I go on ahead into the office? I really need to sit down.”

The SHIELD building is impressive, all steel and glass and great sight lines, but with zero regard for human comfort. 

“The Director will be right with you, Mr. Barton,” the woman behind the desk says officiously. “I’m afraid in his absence, his office is off limits to all but senior personnel.”

Clint tries again, pouring on the puppy-dog charm this time.

“Been a long day, lady. Plus, I need a place to put down my lunch.”

She shuffles her papers and ignores him. _Shit._ He must be losing his touch. Seriously, if this Fury dude is going to make people wait like this, why doesn’t he keep a couch outside his office? 

After all, it’s not like Clint is the one who’d asked to be here - on zero notice no less, like it was urgent or something. But Coulson had insisted on him coming, like, _right away_ and that ride on the Quinjet had been far too convenient to refuse, especially on that twisted ankle. Coulson hadn’t even asked who’d paid Clint for the job, he’d just said something about SHIELD’s own people trying to do - and fucking up - for eons what he’d finished before lunch. Clearly, they must be desperate for a decent archer.

And so here Clint is now, ready to interview Director Fury to see whether killing for SHIELD would be a better gig than staying freelance. Regular employment, health care and an expunged record are all good things, but this waiting around thing is for the birds. Ten points from Slytherin.

At least Coulson had taken pity on his rumbly tummy and given him time to grab some chow in the cafeteria, if not enough to sit down and actually eat it. Clint plops the Styrofoam box and paper coffee cup on Dragon Lady’s desk with a smile that dares her to complain about the smell. She gives him the hairy eyeball, for which he can’t really blame her; his favourite grey hoodie has some nasty encrustations. Mexican _narco_ blood mostly, thanks for asking; that cartel had been a target-rich environment. 

He stops pacing, shifts his weight for a more lopsided effect and theatrically suppresses a groan. The woman takes notice. 

“Ankle,” he says. “Twisted. Coulson promised I could get it looked at after I see the Director, but the standing is making it worse. Wonder whether I should claim damages for that?”

Her eyes narrow and Clint smells victory; the paperwork on a worker’s comp claim for a guy SHIELD hasn’t even hired yet must be heinous. She picks up the phone. 

Game, set and match for the circus pro?

“ _Fine_ ,” she says after putting the receiver back down, surprise and resentment in her voice. “The Director says you may go in and sit down. _But_ _don’t touch anything_.” 

Maybe he should bristle at the insinuation; after all, Clint Barton is a killer, not a thief. But the thought of a soft leather chair for his butt and a nicely polished mahogany desk for his feet overrides all other considerations. He grabs his lunch and coffee cup and heads for the door before she can change her mind.

“Fair warning,” she adds. “Director Fury’s cat has a bit of a temper, and she hasn’t been fed yet this morning.”

Clint does his best to suppress an ‘ _Oh, puh-leeze_.’ Having spent his childhood among lions (okay, one, with an acute case of the mange) and tigers (two, ditto), he is more than able to handle a crabby tabby. 

“No worries,” he says. “I’m good with kitties. Maybe I’ll let her have some of my lunch.”

The office is a proper grown-up space: Lots of dark wood and a bunch of monitors and phones. The one with the red button is interesting - direct line to the Oval Office, or some missile silo in Wyoming? He resists the temptation to find out; a promise is a promise and he’s pretty sure that his grudgingly authorized presence in this room is a test of some kind. But no harm in looking around, is there?

On the desk there’s a bunch of those coins the law enforcement agencies hand out, stacked like poker chips, but nothing really personal. No pics of a wife and two-point-five children, no vanity shot with someone important, no class pic from West Point or Quantico, not even a fern. 

Except the cat. That is _definitely_ a personal touch. The only pets Clint has ever seen head honchos surround themselves with are pit bulls, or in the case of Escobar, lions and hippos. Obviously, the Director of SHIELD is pretty secure in his masculinity. 

The cat looks like one of those generic gingers you see on the streets all over the Middle East, but better fed and with shiny fur. She lounges on the credenza like she owns the place, stretching and licking her butt, but lifts her head when Clint enters the room. 

She hops down from her perch and onto the desk with effortless grace and every indication that Clint is intruding on her personal space. Yellow-green eyes fix him with a stare that is somewhere on the scale between ‘ _Who the Hell are you?’_ and, ‘ _Where’s my treat, Serf?’_

Clint knows a tiger when he sees one, never mind all that gingery fluffiness. A treat it will be, then. 

“Hey kitty,” he says. “Nice to meet you. Look, you can have some of my lunch.” 

He puts the Styrofoam container on the desk, opens it up and is momentarily taken aback by what meets his eye: A greyish lump of protein; a blob of semi-congealed sauce; and a mound of mashed potatoes flattened by the lid. On the side sits a spoonful of formerly frozen vegetables, vaguely in the colours of an Irish flag that’s been chewed up and spat back out. 

Clint’s appetite, soaring until a bare two seconds ago, takes a nosedive. Maybe he could have eaten this if he was still living in Iowa, but after having killed his way across much of Europe, Asia and the Middle East his culinary horizons have expanded to the point where food has to at least _look_ edible. 

“You know what?” he says, resignation heavy in his voice, “You can have it all. The whole shebang. Here ya go."

He pushes the open box towards the cat. The cat regards the offering for a moment as a goddess would, trying to assess whether what has been presented by her minions is Worthy.

“ _Rrrr-ow_?” she says, tilting her head, the picture of feline diffidence.

So it comes as a bit of a surprise when her mouth opens, opens wider, and then opens some more – until it becomes this enormous pink maw that kind of turns the whole kitty inside out. Pink innards shoot out like a bunch of tentacles, reach for the Styrofoam container, wrap themselves around it, suck it in whole without even an attempt at chewing it up, and retract again. 

As quickly as it started the show is over and the cat sits there, orange and fluffy, daintily licking her paw. By rights there should be a box-shaped lump in her gut, but there isn’t. 

“What the fuck?”

Needless to say, the cat doesn’t deign to answer. Clint casts a quick look to the open door, where the secretary is obliviously sorting mail. Either she didn’t notice anything, or she’s used to the cat turning into a giant squid; Clint would rather eat his jock strap than ask which it is. Meanwhile, there’s the more practical question of whether he should stay in the office. His bow is in a locker at reception, of course, but admitting defeat and leaving the office is out of the question.

At least the cat hasn’t touched his coffee. On the other hand, what if she decides she wants it? Just how wide _does_ that mouth open - big enough to admit one Hawkeye? Time to put those lion-taming skills to use.

“I’m taking that cup now, ‘mkay?” he says tentatively. "I need caffeine, in case I have to move really fast for some reason."

The cat ignores him in the usual feline way. 

Clint slowly reaches for the cup, a wary eye on the cat’s tongue, still small and pink and working on its left paw. Nothing happens. _Phew._ It’s probably safe to assume that the cat doesn’t eat chairs, since there are two in front of the desk and one behind; they look like they’ve been there a while. With a sigh of relief, Clint sinks into the one farthest from the cat, puts his feet on the desk and salutes her with the paper cup. The coffee, as it turns out, isn’t half bad.

The cat, in turn, sits back and studies Clint as she might a large and tempting snack. There’s a collar around her neck, with a tag. _Goose_ , it says. Odd name for a cat, but then this is a rather odd cat.

“So tell me, Goose,” Clint says, “Did they not feed you when you were little? ‘Cause your table manners remind me of Barney - that grab-it-while-you-can thing. Hard habit to break; I bet he still eats like that, too.”

Goose gives him a lingering look, with eyes that seem to be glowing. 

‘ _Rrrow?’_ she says. 

Clint takes that for a 'yes' and nods sagely.

“Listen, if you’re still hungry, they gave me some sugar and creamer for the coffee. Interested?”

Is that a nod? Well, even it’s not, time to experiment. Clint fishes the packets of sugar and powdered creamer out of his pocket and tosses them at the cat, one at a time, in rapid-fire succession.

Sure enough, that maw opens again and tongues come out, four of them, each picking off a packet and sucking it into the cat. Within seconds, though, the two creamer tubes come back out, little missiles directed straight at Clint. He picks them out of the air with one hand; they’re not even damp. 

Interesting.

“Can’t blame you,” he says and, in the absence of a visible garbage can, sticks the packets back into his pocket. “Powdered carcinogen, that shit. Why I prefer my coffee black. Enjoy the sugar.”

 _‘Reeow,’_ Goose agrees and starts licking the other paw. She’s getting positively placid now, which is totally fine with Clint. Once you’ve shared food and conversation, things are less likely to eat you; at least that’s how it had worked with the old lion. 

And then it occurs to him - maybe this whole encounter is some sort of skill testing thing?

“I see you’ve met my cat,” a growly voice says behind Clint.

He takes his feet off the desk and swings the chair around. The guy, taller than Clint and with an impressive eye patch, must be the Director - if only because anteroom-Zuul didn’t try to stop him.

“Sure have,” Clint says by way of return greeting. “She’s a bit strange but we got along okay.”

Fury gives him a broad, calculating grin that discloses an extraordinary number of teeth. 

“And what exactly did you find strange about her?”

Goose choses that moment to emit a choking, retching sound. After a couple of seconds, during which Clint watches her with concern and Fury with mild interest, she rolfs up the Styrofoam container. It’s completely intact, spotlessly clean, and about half the size of the cat itself so where the hell has it been?

“ _That,_ ” Clint points at the container. “Or is that normal?”

“She doesn’t like plastic,” Fury shrugs, as if that were obvious. 

Clint picks up the container – only fair, since he’s the one who brought it in here so he should be the one to throw it out. Also, it’s pretty clear that Fury is avoiding the point here. Well, fuck that. Two can play at that game.

“I guess that means the meatloaf was actual food then? Could have fooled me,” Clint says and adds, “You got a garbage can in here somewhere?”

Fury walks around his desk, retrieves a small bin from underneath and holds it out towards Clint. 

“Goose may not like styrofoam, but she _will_ eat things that are a threat. Weapons, explosives, evil minions, and most of Doreen’s specials.”

Clint digests that piece of information while tossing the container into the bin from where he’s sitting. Fury’s eyebrows twitch when the thing, despite its lack of ballistic properties, lands precisely where it was supposed to, fitting into the rectangular opening just _so_.

“Nice aim,” the Director says, trying to sound unimpressed.

It’s Clint’s turn to shrug nonchalantly.

“Projectiles are kind of my thing. I’m sure Coulson mentioned?”

Fury plonks himself down in his chair and puts his feet on the desk, causing Goose to stand up, stretch and rub her chin against his boots. 

“He did,” Fury says. “Thirty-seven _narco-traficantes,_ all with arrows straight into the eye socket. A whole cartel sidelined in one go, something half a dozen agencies, including this one, have failed to do in three years of trying. What Coulson didn’t tell me, though, is why you might want to come work for SHIELD.”

“That makes two of us,” Clint counters. “I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_. I was just in it for the ride back East and the promise of a free splint. So make your pitch, sir, ‘cause your cafeteria sure ain’t the magnet Coulson might think it is.”

For a moment, Fury looks mildly taken aback, but it doesn’t last long. The grin comes back, if anything a bit broader than before.

“Don’t knock the caff,” he says. “Doreen’s baklava grows on you.”

He stares at Clint for a good half minute before continuing, like he’s been taking his measure or something. Clint decides to ignore him and reaches over to scritch the top of Goose’s head. Goose flattens her ears and closes her eyes in feline bliss.

“Okay, so here’s the thing,” Fury finally says. “SHIELD is governed by the World Security Council. The Council has extremely high expectations, but we’re not always on the same page when it comes to what kinds of threats we face or what to do about them. What that means is that I need people who aren’t fazed easily, have a loose appreciation for authority, a Grade ‘A’ bullshit detector, and solid judgment for when to pull the trigger.”

“Like your cat,” Clint says. So that _had_ been a test.

“Like my cat,” Fury nods. “Fuzzy on the outside, but with hidden depth.”

“And a big mouth?” 

“Optional,” Fury shrugs. “We offer job security, medical, dental, pension plan and for assets, a signing bonus.”

Clint looks over at Goose, now back to licking herself and purring like she owns the place. 

“And you’ll throw in the occasional really weird shit?”

Fury – consciously or not, Clint can’t tell – touches his eye patch and the starburst of a scar just visible around its edges.

“ _That_ you can positively count on.” 

And all of a sudden, the path forward is clearer to Clint than it’s been for a very long time. He holds out his hand to the Director.

“I’m in.”


End file.
